Player of Games
by Roguehunter1
Summary: Dean is in a race against the clock as Sam is plagued by terrifying nightmares that leave him weaker and weaker. But how can Dean stop something that is all in his brother's mind?
1. Chapter 1

_I've been writing for years, but this my first go at fanfiction so let me know what you think. Rogue_

_Player of Games_

_Chapter One: How Long Can You Hold Your Breath_

_I am a Player of Games. But as with any good game there must be a worthy opponent. Someone on which I can hone my deadly skills. Some would call them my prey. They would be right. My only objective is to win. I am as of yet undefeated._

Sam Winchester glanced around at his surroundings in awed puzzlement, wondering how he'd gotten there. A vast endless desert of glistening snow stretched out as far as the eye could see in any given direction. Not a single skeletal tree or brambling bush marred the pristine landscape.The sky as pale as grey ash was tinged crimson on the western horizon, a not so subtle indication that nightfall was hastily approaching.

A chilled breeze swept past Sam, ruffling his deep chestnut bangs as the gale grew in strength. Wisps of snowy flakes danced lightly upon the ground before swirling upward in ghostly white vortexes. His mind whirled in perfect precision with the snowy cyclones thoughts scattering and disappearing as quickly as the powdery flakes. Only one thought kept a constant vigil in the far recesses of his mind. Where was Dean?

With each breath Sam expelled, plumes of soft white smoke billowed from his mouth attesting to the frigid temperature. Yet, even though he wore only a white cotton t-shirtand equally white pants, he wasn't cold in the least. His head dropped back onto his shoulders and he gazed into the darkening skies. Snow began to fall lightly on his face, melting from the heat of his skin. Cool droplets of water trailed down his cheeks and over his jaw, snaking a path toward the base of his throat and soaking into the collar of his t-shirt.

The snow began to fall in earnest, his clothes quickly becoming drenched. Snowflakes clung to his hair, melted and turned to ice in the rapidly cooling night air. He shivered, gooseflesh rippling up and down his bare arms. Sam hugged his arms around his chest as he trembled, his earlier awe turning to panic as he realized Dean was no where around. He was alone and couldn't even begin to imagine which way would lead him out of the vast forest of nothingness.

"Dean?" he shouted, his voice echoing off the peaks and valleys of crisp, freshly fallen snow. "Dean, where the hell are you?" he called again when he heard a faint rustle of noise that seemed to come from everywhere all at once.

The snow swirled more violently around him, biting at his exposed skin and stinging his eyes. The skies once ashen now turned a deep indigo, clouds overshadowing the pale moon. Night had descended with a vengeance, winds howling and rushing past him with ominous veracity. A whispered voice carried on the breeze, so faint at first Sam was forced to crane his neck to hear it. Louder and deeper the voice grew, its tone rich and silky smooth.

"_I am the Player of Games," _it said, its voice ringing in Sam's ears, and Sam swung around to try and find whomever had spoken. Nothing but endless snow met his hazel eyes._"Do you deem yourself a worthy opponent?"_

"Where's Dean?" Sam hollered as he squinted into the darkness, training his sights on the moving shadows off in the distance. "What the hell have you done to my brother?"

"_There is no Dean here," _the voice responded. Its sudden laughter whipped the snow into a fevered frenzy, a wall of white shrouding Sam's view of the shadow he had seen a moment before. _"Only two can play the game." _Here the voice hesitated, its deep rich laughter rumbling the earth on which Sam stood_. "And there can only be one winner_. _The rules are simple. There is really only one. You die, you lose."_

"Not gonna play your freakin' game." Sam swung around on the spot as he squinted, trying to locate the creature the voice belonged to, but saw nothing beyond a wall of white rapidly closing in on him.

"_Then you choose to forfeit?"_

"Said I wasn't playin'." Sam trembled violently as a sea of cold white snow washed over him, knocked him off his feet and buried him waist deep within its frigid depths.

"_To forfeit is to lose. Rethink your options."_

Large, fat snowflakes began to descend more rapidly from the sky above, piling on the snow that already covered Sam. His skin burned with the cold, fingers and toes going numb as the onslaught of snow continued without cease.

"How do I win?" he finally asked, teeth chattering loudly.

"_Thought that was obvious. You survive, you win."_

Sam hesitated for a moment as he thought of any other way in which to escape, but without knowing where he was, he realized he didn't have any other options open to him. "Alright, I'll play your stupid game," he conceded with a hateful snarl. "But when I win, I'm gonna be coming after you."

"_Good. A worthy opponent." _

Powerful gale force winds blew past Sam carrying away most of the snow that had covered him. Sam pushed himself up on his haunches, and tried to stand. His arms thrashed around like overworked windmills as he slipped and slid on a bed of glare ice. Legs coming out from beneath him, he crashed to the ground, and heard an ominous crack. Slowly he inched his way backward, the earth cracking and splintering underneath him. Inch by agonizing inch, he crab crawled his way across what he now realized was a frozen lake. Sam cautiously placed his hand behind him, a thunderous crack reverberated through the air and stopped him dead in his tracks.

"_First game is called, how long can you hold your breath."_

The ground beneath Sam rumbled, split and gave way. A mere second later, Sam crashed through the ice, dropping feet first into the darkened watery abyss. Icy water leapt up to greet him as he clawed at the huge chunks of ice floating and bobbing in the murky greyish-blue water. Powerful undercurrents dragged him downward, his arms and legs growing tired and useless against the struggle to keep afloat. His clothes now heavy and drenched with water, clung to his skin, weighing him down.

Sam flailed his arms, frigid dirty water splashing into his eyes and mouth. He gagged on the gritty, fishy tasting water as he struggled to draw in air. With heart hammering away inside his chest, he reached for a thick chunk of ice, and tried to pull himself onto it. Under the strain of his weight, the block of ice turned and bobbed on its side, Sam's fingers slipping free of his hold on it. Weedy tendrils wrapped firmly around his legs, and dragged him under. Beneath the water, Sam struggled with the vines and weeds tangled around his legs, and tearing them away from his feet, he kicked his way to the surface. With one deep breath of air he was swept back under, and pulled far below by the current.

Somehow Sam managed to break free of the strong undertow and swam for the surface, his eyes on the narrow beam of haloed light coming from overhead. As he reached the surface, his head collided with a solid block of ice. Fear coiled in his stomach and rose into his heart as he slammed his fists against the ice, but found it was completely solid.

"_And so the count begins. One one-thousand . . . two one-thousand . . . three one-thousand." _Sam's ears rung with the sound of bone-chilling laughter coming from his opponent as he struggled vainly to escape the underwater prison. _"Not such a worthy opponent after all." _The faceless being laughed again. _"Four one-thousand . . . five one-thousand."_

Sam's vision swam in front of his eyes as his burning lungs screamed for air. His arms, too tired to pound against the wall of ice any longer, hung limply out to the sides, floating uselessly in the murky water.

"_Six one-thousand . . . seven one-thousand . . . eight one-thousand . . . ."_

Too exhausted to fight any longer, Sam's eyes drifted closed and he breathed in deeply, water filling his nostrils and lungs. His heart slowed and he felt himself being lifted upward and beyond the water.

"Sam," Dean shook his little brother, terror filling his heart at how deathly still and cold Sam was, "Sammy, breathe for me. Come on, you can't do this to me. Wake the hell up."

Sam gasped, arching upward in his bed. His breath staggered in his throat as he struggled to draw in air. He peered around the small dingy motel room, his wild-eyed gaze then settled on Dean. "Where were you?" he uttered in a low, shaky breathless voice. "You weren't there."

"Been here all night, Sammy." With the back of his hand, Dean touched Sam's forehead and grimaced at how cold and clammy his brother's skin felt. "Man, you must've been havin' one helluva a nightmare."

"Wasn't a nightmare." Sam leaned back against the headboard of the bed, a deep sigh escaping him as he brushed his dampened bangs out of his eyes. "There was this voice," Sam shook his head, biting at his lower lip as if trying to jar his groggy memory, "and there was nothing but snow everywhere."

"Doesn't sound like that bad of a dream so far," Dean butted in as he adjusted Sam's pillows. A worried frown creased Dean's brow as he noticed that Sam was still shivering despite the almost stifling heat of the room. He reached across the narrow expanse between their two twin beds and grabbed the blue paisley print comforter off of it and wrapped it around his little brother.

"Said it wasn't a nightmare. It was real, I was there." Sam's lips quivered, and Dean noted that there was a slight tinge of blue to them. His little brother's brows pulled together, forehead furrowing in peaks and valleys as he focused on the swirling patterns of blue on the soft downy comforter. "Then I fell through the ice, an' I was drowning. Could taste the water in my mouth and felt it burning my lungs."

"Sam, it's the middle of July," Dean tried to reason, "an we're in Virginia. There's no snow, in fact, it's hot as hell outside." He hesitated when he saw Sam open his mouth to argue, and held up a hand to stave off any protests Sam might have had to the contrary. "It was a dream. A really freakin' vivid dream." Pursing his lips, he shook his head, assured in the knowledge that he was right on the matter. "That's all it was, nothin' more."

"How can you be so sure?" Sam's eyes rounded, taking on the look of a wounded puppy, unshed tears welling in them at the thought that Dean didn't believe him.

"Cause I was in the bed right over there." He gestured to his own bed, a bone-weary sigh escaping him as he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling his short scruffy hair. "Woke up when I heard you hollerin' my name, and saw you kick off your blankets and thrash around on your bed. Got out of bed to wake you an' noticed you were holding your breath." He paused for a moment, drawing in a slow shaky breath as his mind reeled back to the moment he realized his brother wasn't breathing. "Scared the hell out of me, but I'm tellin' ya, you were here the whole time."

"Guess you're right," Sam finally conceded with a curt nod. "It — it just seemed so real."

"Course I am, I'm the older brother which means I'm always right." Dean cast Sam a rakish grin as he playfully punch him on the shoulder. "Now get some sleep. You look like you might be coming down with something, an' I don't want to be stuck in this podunk town any longer than necessary."

Sam returned his smile with a weak one of his own, and slid down beneath the covers, drawing them up to his chin as he still continued to shiver. "Yeah, guess you're right," he yawned, eyelids already drooping closed, "really not feeling very well at the moment."

Once again, Dean checked to see if his brother was feverish, and frowned when he felt how cold Sam's skin still was despite the fact that he was buried deep beneath two heavy comforters in the middle of July. Dean watched his brother for a moment longer, listening as Sam's breathing evened out, and heard him softly snoring. He stood and wrapped Sam's blankets more firmly around him, then pulled a chair up alongside his brother's bed, not about to go to sleep again until he was certain that Sam was okay.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for reading and for all the reviews. Hope everyone continues to enjoy ther story. Rogue_

_Chapter Two: Run, Run as Fast as You Can_

"_Ah, an unexpected delay in the game, but I guess that is to be expected," _a breathless voice whispered into Sam's ear, startling him out of his restless slumber.

Sam blinked the sleep out of his eyes, and rubbed them in an agitated manner. His fingers were ice cold, and felt slightly numb and tingly. Although cold, Sam was sweating, his dampened hair hung in thick clumps around his face. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, and slid down the nape of his neck. Huddled beneath two comforters, he shivered, a sick feeling washing over him as he felt how drenched the blankets and sheets were.

He braced his hands against the mattress, and tried to push himself into a sitting position. The room abruptly spun off kilter and just as hastily shifted back. Stomach lurching in protest, Sam took in slow measured breaths in an effort to quell the growing ache. Bile rose and burned at the back of his throat. Sam quickly covered his mouth, cheeks expanding as the mutinous bile washed over his tongue looking for a hasty exit. Throwing back his covers, he launched himself off the bed and darted toward the bathroom.

Sam dropped to his knees in front of the white porcelain toilet, and heaved violently. At the feel of a hand on his back, Sam jumped, startled that he hadn't heard his brother enter the bathroom. His stomach churned as he continued to gag, but finally after several long and agonizing minutes, the pain in his stomach finally began to settle. Sam pushed away from the toilet and leaned against the cool wall to catch his breath. The black and white mosaic tiles on the floor shifted in and out of focus, and the coolness of them seemed to seep right through Sam's cotton boxers, causing him to tremble all the harder. Dean grabbed a towel of the rack near the tub, wet it down and handed it to Sam.

"You okay, Sammy?" came Dean's low and comforting voice, his words wrapping themselves around Sam like the warmest of blankets. He knelt on his haunches and began to rub the back of Sam's neck, calloused work-worn hands soothing away the dull aches and pain.

"Yeah, m'okay," Sam mumbled weakly, the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach not yet fully abated. With more effort than he would have imagine it would take, Sam wiped the dampened towel across his face and mouth then tossed it aside.

Dean reached around and felt Sam's forehead with the back of his hand, worry registering in his pale green eyes. "No fever, but your skin still feels ice freakin' cold." With hands on knees, Dean pushed himself into a standing position, and grabbed hold of Sam's hand, helping him to his feet. "Let's get you back to bed, an' then I'll go pay for another night."

Wobbling precariously on shaky legs, Sam grabbed hold of the sink for support, and felt Dean slip an arm around his waist. It was a simple gesture on Dean's part, but it clearly said, 'I gotcha, little brother, an' as long as I'm around nothin' bad's gonna happen to you', and despite how sick and miserably cold he felt, Sam cast a weary smile in his brother's direction.

"Said I was okay. I can make it there by myself." Sam tried to brush his older brother away, but Dean's grip tightened in response and Sam was just too weak to argue.

"You're okay when I say you're okay, an' right now you're not," Dean stubbornly declared, using his 'I'm your big brother and it's my job to take care of you' tone of voice. With his brother's help, Sam trudged back to his bed, and was about to slump down onto it when Dean stopped him. "Change of plans," he said as he eyed the damp, tangled sheets, "you take my bed, an' I'll get some fresh sheets an' blankets from the manager."

"Dean, my bed's fine," Sam weakly protested as he stifled a yawn, "jus' wanna go back to sleep."

"Not gonna argue with you on this, you're taking my bed." Dean guided Sam around the first of the two beds, and with knees buckling Sam dropped down onto his brother's soft mattress. "Let me get you some warmer clothes to put on, an' then you can get some rest."

"Don't feel like changing. What I have on is fine." It was a lie, but Sam couldn't bring himself to tell his brother that he just felt too damn weak to manage getting dressed at the moment.

"Didn't ask you if you wanted to change, said you were gonna put on some warmer clothes." Dean rummaged through Sam's duffel and yanked out a pair of grey sweat pants and long sleeve shirt. He tossed them to Sam, but Sam made no attempt to even try and catch them, and they landed on the bed a few inches away from where he sat.

"Please, Dean, I'm just too damn tired. Jus' wanna go to sleep. Promise I'll change later."

"Not askin' ya to run a marathon here, Sammy," Dean yanked a pair of socks out of the duffel, and tossed them on the bed beside Sam's other clothes, "just want you to put on some warmer clothes." He gave a slight nudged of his head toward Sam's chest. "That freakin' shirt is soaked clear through, an' I'm not about to have you get any sicker. So you can argue all you want, but you are changing, got me?"

One look into his brother's unrelenting green eyes, and Sam knew Dean would not let him get any rest until he did exactly as directed. With a deep agitated groan lingering on his lips, Sam tried to wrestle out of the dampened shirt that clung to his muscular frame. After a few moments of struggling to get his arms out of the sleeves, he gave up and grudgingly let Dean help him.

"Not a freakin' two-year-old, Dean," he grumbled for his own benefit, not liking the idea that his brother knew that he was too exhausted and sick to manage the simple task on his own. Dean's mother-hen protective mode would kick into overdrive now, and Sam very much doubted he would see daylight again until his big brother declared him healthy enough to face the world once more.

"Never said you were." Dean's not so subtle grin spoke volumes to Sam, and Sam braced himself for whatever joke Dean was about to make at his expense. But for once Dean chose to hold back from making any further comments, and for that, Sam was grateful.

Once Dean had helped him put on a warmer flannel shirt, Sam slipped on his sweat pants and socks, the menial task taking the last of his stores of strength. With the bed creaking loudly under protest of his weight, Sam laid down on the mattress, his eyes already closing before his head hit the pillow.

"Thanks, Dean," he mumbled, but wasn't even sure if the words had made it past his lips as sleep quickly overtook him.

"Not a problem, that's what big brothers are for." Dean covered Sam with a thin blanket, and grimaced when he realized it would not be enough to keep his brother's trembling body warm. Not knowing what was wrong with his little brother, Dean hesitated in leaving Sam alone even for the short amount of time it would take to pay for another night and to get fresh blankets, but knew he really didn't have a choice in the matter.

His little brother had been sick many times in the past and Dean had always taken care of him, but never before had he seen Sam so pale nor had his brother ever felt so deathly cold, and it terrified Dean. He knew how to take care of a fever, had been taught by the best to stitch a wound, but no one had ever bothered to tell him what to do if his brother was freezing to death in ninety degree weather.

"I'll be right back, Sam."

"Mmhmm." Sam rolled onto his side and curled into a tight ball, hugging his arms around his legs in an attempt to keep warm.

Dean hesitated a few seconds longer before he grabbed his wallet off the night stand and headed for the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at his brother for a moment. A worried frown creased his brow as he bit at his lower lip, wondering briefly about the nightmare Sam had told him about. Sam had been so insistent that it had been real, had been sure he was drowning in icy water, and now he was literally freezing cold, and Dean couldn't help but think that it was more than just a mere coincidence.

What Dean wasn't quite so sure of yet was if Sam was just sick or was it something supernatural causing his illness, but years of experience had the trained hunter leaning toward the latter. And if it was the latter, then it apparently didn't know what family it was dealing with. No one hurt his little brother and lived to gloat about it. He'd always protected Sam no matter what and this time would be no different, he assured himself as he strode out the door.

Sam shielded his eyes with his hand as he glanced up at the umbrella of trees high overhead that shrouded the forest in near darkness. Nestled somewhere just outside his range of vision, strange exotic sounding birds chirped and cawed. High aloft, several monkeys playfully swung from the thick, sturdy old branches, their screeches blending in perfectly with the other sounds filling the air. A brief smile flitted across his features as he watched them play in complete unawareness of his presence.

The fragrant sweet scent of exotic wild flowers carried on the stifling, steamy breeze, and as Sam slowly pivoted around to take in his surroundings he noticed blooming flowers of every imaginable shape and colour. Vibrant purples, blues, pinks, and fiery reds mingled with deep and light shades of green, reminding Sam of a painter's pallette.

Sam wiped away the fine sheen of moisture on his forehead before raking his fingers through his sweat dampened hair. He took a deep breath and coughed hard, the moist heated air making it hard to breathe properly. His lungs burned with the effort it took to inhale and exhale, and he momentarily wondered if it was the humidity that was causing it or if he was coming down with a cold.

A monstrous green python uncoiled itself from around the gnarled branch of a tree, and slithered down rough bark to the ground. Sam stood stock-still as the hissing creature slithered in his direction. Its beady serpent eyes locked on Sam as its forked tongue flitted in and out of its wide mouth. As the python slithered closer, the hissing sound grew louder, and it momentarily struck Sam odd that it sounded exactly like a sudden burst of hard rain.

"_Are you ready to resume the game?" _came a deep, silky smooth voice, the sound of it reverberated through the trees, scattering the multi-coloured birds hidden amongst the thick green foliage.

A rustling in the leaves high overhead, momentarily diverted Sam's attention away from the snake. As he narrowed his sights on a crooked branch halfway up the tree directly in front of him, he saw a dark wispy shadow. Within a blink, it whirled away to land on another lofty branch further into the depths of the forest. The tree limb jostled and swayed under its weight before the creature disappeared into thin air.

"A freakin' snake?" Sam took a backward step, and slowly crouched to pick up a thick jagged tree limb. "Is that the best ya got?" he scoffed, a cocksure grin easing across his features. "Would've thought you'd come up with something a little more challenging after the lake."

"_The snake?" _the voice sounded puzzled for a moment before peels of malicious laughter echoed throughout the dense forest. _"No, the python was just a convenient distraction. Listen. Can you hear them? Buzzing. Swarming." _The disembodied voice died away, and as Sam craned his neck to listen, he heard a distinct buzzing noise that grew louder by the second. _"Can you guess what kind of creatures buzz and swarm?"_

Tremors of fear raced down Sam's spine as he squinted and saw what looked like a blackened tornado zig-zagging in his direction. "Bees."

"_Not just bees, but killer bees." _The inky smooth voice hesitated a moment to allow the direness of the situation to sink in, before it continued, _"The second game is called, run, run as fast as you can. You don't outrun them you're a very dead man." _

"Freakin' sonuvabitch." The python forgotten, Sam dropped the tree limb, turned on his heel and took off at a dead run, crashing through leafy foliage and stumbling over veiny aboveground roots. Twigs caught and stuck in his hair as he leapt over a fallen log and kept running. Heart pounding hard inside his chest, he dodged around several small trees blocking the narrow dirt path.

Darkness swept over him as the swarm descended. Bees whizzed past his ears, some landing on his exposed arms, stinging him. Sam swatted furiously at them as he darted around scrubs and barreled though webby grey vines.

"_Better run faster," _came the taunting voice, and Sam glanced upward and briefly caught a glimpse of red serpent-like eyes staring back at him. _"You're running out of time."_

Sweat streamed down Sam's flushed face, his skin burning as more and more bees stung him. Bees slipped beneath the collar of his t-shirt and crawled around on his back and chest. Stingers like sharpened needles pierced his skin, and he began to slow his pace. Panicking, he slapped at his chest, trying to kill them before more could sting him. Incessant buzzing filled the forest as bees crawled inside his ears and landed in his hair. Fear overtaking any sort of reason, he swatted at his hair, riling the bees further.

"_Not such a good idea. What part of killer bees aren't you getting? You're just making them angrier."_ The faceless creature chuckled. _"Should've just continued to run. There's a waterfall not to far from here, you could've made it there. Probably would have been safe then."_

"Dean," Sam moaned as he dropped to his knees, red welts covering his fevered skin. More and more bees covered him as he weakly tried to swipe them away. He opened his mouth to call out to Dean again, and bees crawled inside, stinging his tongue and the back of his throat. His body jerked and convulsed as his eyes rolled backward into his head. Crumpling to the ground, the bees covered over him completely.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry for the long delay, family issues at home. Thanks for reading and for all the really great reviews so far. I have really been overwhelmed by the great response to my first Supernatural story, and I thank everyone for being so kind. Rogue_

_Chapter Three:_ _A Momentary Pause for a Commercial Break_

Dean pushed open the motel office door, a tingling bell overhead announcing his arrival, and strode to the registration desk. Apparently oblivious of the fact Dean was standing there tapping his fingers impatiently on the wooden counter, the extremely overweight manager munched away on his meatball sub as he watched some show on television. Although Dean couldn't see the television screen situated somewhere underneath the counter, from the sounds of applause, sirens and bells, Dean gathered the man was watching some sort of game show.

Thick red sauce dribbled down the manager's scraggly brown beard and dripped onto his grey shirt to mingle with a vast variety of other food stains. He scrubbed his hand across his beard and then wiped it back and forth on his grungy shirt, smearing the sauce across his expansive flabby chest. "Damn, freakin' commercial breaks." A slew of curse words tumbled from his lips as he furiously tapped his finger on the remote. "Do I really look like I freakin' care about women's feminine products?" He briefly paused to take another mammoth bite out of his sandwich before returning his attention to flipping channels, and finally settled on another game show.

"Excuse me," Dean said, and cleared his throat when the manager still didn't acknowledge his presence.

"Damn it, pick door number two," the manager shouted at the television screen, his chubby sausagelike fingers curling tightly around his sandwich as he flailed his massive arms out to the sides. Sauce splattered on the dingy cream-coloured walls, and Dean was forced to back away as a spray of chunky red paste was flung in his direction. "That's the damn problem with these game shows, no one ever picks door number two, and the best stuff's always behind it. But no, they always pick door number one or three."

Dean cleared his throat again, eyes narrowing on the man, anger growing as the moments ticked by. "Think I could get some help here, Bubba?" The soft rumble of the air conditioning unit clicking on, briefly diverted Dean's attention to it, and he cursed under his breath knowing that he'd forgotten to switch off the one in his motel room. "Now."

"Just a sec." The man threw up his index finger and wagged it at Dean. He flipped the channel to another game show, and leaned back into his swivel chair. The black leather chair creaked and moaned loudly under the strain of the man's four hundred plus pounds, and Dean momentarily thought the weakened frame might just give out, sending the manager crashing to the floor. "Sudden death. Gotta love sudden death. Clock's ticking out, an' somehow it always forces people into making the wrong decisions."

"Look, I really need to pay for another — "

"Hold on, I'm on a break," the manager cut him off as he flipped the channel again to yet another game show. "This one's really good," he gestured toward the screen, "they put people in all sorts of survival situations against this one guy who's really good at winning the game, an' see how well they do against him." He turned in his chair to grin at Dean. "So far no one's ever beaten him."

"Sounds like a stupid game to me." Dean rolled his eyes, not believing that he was being sucked into a conversation about game shows when all he wanted to do was get back to Sam.

"All a matter of perspective, I suppose." The manager returned his attention to the television screen. "It's never a stupid game if you're the winner."

"You can't be the winner if it isn't a fair game to begin with," Dean countered smoothly.

"So you've never played a game where all the odds were stacked in your favor? Never cheated to win?" There was a gloating quality to the man's gravelly tone, like he already knew the answer to the question, and was just waiting to rub it in Dean's face. "Thought so," he added when Dean didn't immediately respond. "Most people cheat when they think they can get away with it. It's human nature."

"Can I just pay for another night an' get some fresh blankets and sheets?" As far as Dean was concerned the discussion was over. He didn't need some lowlife motel manager from east bumfuck passing judgement on him. Sure he hustled pool and had cheated at cards from time to time, but didn't feel he needed to justify his actions to anyone, much less this man.

"In a minute, this guy's about to lose, an' I don't wanna miss it." The manager folded his plump arms over his massive stomach and pushed back further into his chair, not about to wait on Dean until he was good and ready. "You shoulda seen the huge freakin' green python they had on this show before the commercial break. Gotta give the contestant a little credit though, he wasn't afraid of it. Most people would've been, ya know?"

"What the hell does a python have to do with a game show?" Dean leaned over the counter, craned his neck and tilted it to the side, trying to get a better look at the television, but could only see a small corner of the screen.

"Shock value, I guess." He shrugged, and gestured toward the screen again, chuckling. "Or maybe it was a diversionary tactic. You know, to make the player think that it's the real threat when there's an even bigger one just waiting in the wings."

What little Dean could see of the screen grew dark as a strange buzzing noise filtered through the television to fill the room. "What happened?" He nudged his head toward the tv before looking to the man for an answer. "You lose the channel or somethin'?"

"Nope." The manger grinned as he braced his hands against the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. "Sudden death. He lost."

Something about the way the man smiled when he had said,_ 'he lost' _sent a cold shiver racing down Dean's spine. His thoughts spiraled to Sam and the strange illness he was suffering from, and worried that like the contestant, Sam was in a race against the clock and his time was quickly running out. Dean consciously shook the dire thought from his mind, and refocused his attention on the man who was now rummaging through the supply closet, searching for blankets and sheets for Dean.

Winded from the small amount of energy it took to gather the blankets and sheets, the manager plodded to the desk and threw the bundle onto the counter. "Course there's still a ways to go in the game." He sucked in a deep breath of air, and expelled it in a rush. The sweet saucy scent of it mingled with the man's sweat, and Dean was forced to stifle a gag, his stomach protesting violently against the pungent odor. "See the real fun part of this game is that they always make you think one thing is happening when in truth its something else entirely."

"What'd ya mean?" Dean yanked out his wallet, opened it and tossed three crumpled twenty dollar bills down onto the counter.

"Oh, I dunno," pale grey-blue eyes met and locked with Dean's, the man's seedy grin widening, "that's what the commercial breaks are for, to make ya wonder just what's gonna happen next." The manager tapped the keys on the register, ringing in another night's stay. He swiped the money off the desk, and placed it in the till. Handing Dean back his change, the manager began to scrawl him a receipt.

"Guess I don't understand." Dean scratched the back of his head, wondering why he was suddenly so interested in a show he normally wouldn't have even paused on if he were flipping channels. "If he already lost, how can there possibly be any more to come?"

"You really don't watch many game shows do you, boy?" He chuckled as he ripped the receipt from the notepad, and pressed it into Dean's hand. "Lifelines. Immunities. Whatever they freakin' wanna call it. Just another way to ramp up the tension."

"An' what does he get if he wins?" Dean shoved the change into his wallet, pocketed it, and grabbed for the bundle of blankets.

"Huh," the man furrowed his brow as he scrubbed his hand across his sweaty face, "not really sure. As I said, no one has ever won before. But I guess that would earn him the title of reigning Player of Games."

"That's it? No big cash pay out?"

"Yeah, I guess so." The manager trudged back to his chair, sunk down onto it, and grabbed for his remote.

"It's a stupid game," Dean turned on his heel, and headed for the entrance, but hearing the man deep throaty laughter, he turned back to stare at him.

"It's only a stupid game if you lose. But if you're smart," here he hesitated and tapped at his temple as he looked Dean up and down as if sizing him up, and subtle frown that slipped across his plump features, suggested that he found the eldest Winchester to be severely lacking in intelligence. "An' I mean _really _smart, can outmaneuver and out think your opponent's every move, then there's nothing better than winning the game. No other prize is needed," he concluded with a self-satisfied smirking grin. He folded his arms, cocked a bushy brow and waited for Dean to respond.

"If I ever decided to play on some freakin' game show," Dean shifted the bundle in his arms so that he could look the man squarely in the eyes, "I can guarantee you that I'd win cause I don't know how to quit."

"I'm sure that would be really interesting to watch." With a roll of his eyes, he returned his attention to watching television, obviously finished with talking to Dean as he once again immersed himself fully in the game he was tuned in to.

After Dean had exited the building, the manager stood, plodded to the window and peered through the dingy plastic blinds, watching the younger man walk back to his room. A wicked smile momentarily slid across his feature as his eyes shifted from grey-blue to serpent red and then back again. "Of course you'd try to win, but I'm way too smart to allow you the chance."


End file.
